In my profession there is sometimes little warning, little time to prepare… or prepare adequately for a task at hand. I kept telling them that. Someone called out sick? That’s not my fault. And yes, I’ll admit it takes me longer to study a situation… and yes, yes… I’m not the best at thinking on my feet. But hey, it was their call, not mine.
The date is clear. June 2, 1692. The Court of Oyer and Terminer convened in Salem Town. William Stoughton the Lieutenant Governor served as Chief Magistrate. Thomas Newton was the Crown’s Attorney responsible for prosecuting the case against Bridget Bishop who stood accused of being a witch. The grand jury had heard the evidence in the morning, endorsed the indictment and the case was brought to trial in the afternoon. It is hard to see that justice was being served with the hastiness of the proceedings. That wasn’t my fault either.
“Sirs, if it please, I am here to speak on behalf of Bridget Bishop against the claim that she is a witch.”
“And your connection?”
“She has been known to my family for years… and, er… years. Yes, a very long time. She, well… she, uh… baked pies for my family. Yes, that’s it. She’s an exceptional baker. Oh, boy… that’s Bridget! Hah! Look at her over there in the dock! Quite a baker! When I was just a boy my mother would tell us, ‘I have a surprise… a Bridget Bishop pie for dessert!’ Wow! She made the best pies! My mother would never think of baking a pie. Never. Why when Bridget made the best. Do you like pies? One Christmas did she ever make the best pie. Let’s see… yes, it was mincemeat pie… she made the best mincemeat pie. Did you ever have any? Gosh, the crust was magical.”
“Magical?“
“Magical? Well… you know what I mean. *ahem* I mean, er… {cough, cough} magical; but not in that sense. If you know what I mean. Not in the biblical sense. It was more like bippity-bobbidy-boo. I didn’t mean that… *whew* What a pie! Anyway… uh, who are these three little girls accusing Bridget of being a witch?! They probably didn’t do their chores! Or maybe they lost their mittens! Yes, that’s it! They lost their mittens! And their mothers said to them, ‘You lost your mittens, you will get no pie!’ Or something like that. Little bratty girls if you ask me.”
“Let’s get back to the pie.”
“Yes, the pie. You know anyone can make apple pie. I mean we have apples growing all over the place, right? Cortlands, Macintosh, Delicious, Empires… even Granny Smiths, right? I mean even your Honor can make an apple pie. But mincemeat? Well, first you have to find mince trees, or maybe it’s mince bushes… I forget. And then you have to peel the minces to get at the meat. Not easy, no siree! It takes talent! It’s a gift!”
“A gift you say? I gift from the devil I say!!”
“No, no… it’s not that type of gift. Devil’s Food? Ha, ha. No, no… not that. My, my no. If anything it’s Angel’s Food Cake. But that’s cake, and we’re talking about pie. But if Bridget made a cake, it would certainly be angel’s food cake… yes it would. In all its white, slightly sticky splendor. I could use a piece of cake right about now! Sure could. I don’t suppose you like cake do you? No, sticky and all? Not like an righteous pie is it? Cheese cake is not bad… it’s really more pie than cake {cough, cough}. You see if those girls had behaved like they were meant to, then their mothers would have given them some righteous mincemeat pie. Instead those beastly little girls had to make up all this blarney about Bridget Bishop being a witch… as if it was Bridget’s fault that they were denied the pie. Now how fair is that?”
“Never mind the children.”
“Yes, I couldn’t agree more! The children never minded their parents! They didn’t do their chores. They lost their mittens. In fact they probably lost their entire family’s supply of mittens… and we all know how harsh are winters are here. Remember we’re still in the mini ice age. It makes finding mince bushes all the more difficult.”
“The children do not stand accused in this court.”
“Well, maybe they should. And while we’re at it Master Prosecutor… what is that dark stuff above your lip? Some devil’s food cake I’d wager!”
“It’s called a moustache!”
“Sure… disguise it with a foreign sounding word. Speaking in tongues are we? A sure sign of the devil if you ask me! Moustache? Call it what you will, Sir… it looks like devil’s food cake… and poorly made devil’s food cake if you ask me… Master Prosecutor!”
“This is absurd! I’m not on trial here!”
“And neither should Bridget Bishop! On what basis? On the word of three snotty nose girls with watery eyes? Bridget Bishop appeared before them as a spectral vision? Nay I say! This vision (if we can call it that) was probably a product of nothing more than an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese or a fragment of underdone potato. They wanted it to be Bridget Bishop… because they wanted a wedge of delicious pie… and, and it was denied to them! Denied not without cause… but because they lost their family’s heirloom mittens! Aye, there is the crime! There is no crime in making great pies! It’s a calling!”
“A calling? How do you mean?”
“A calling? Well, er {cough, cough} not like you think I mean. No, no a different type of calling. Like, uh… like when you go to someone’s house a-calling. You know, *ahem*, like they have a prized pig or something and you go a-calling to see the pig and you bring them a tasty pie. It’s like saying, thank you in advance for giving me a rasher of bacon when you kill your pig! See?”
“Do you have anything to add?”
“I certainly do! It will be a mockery, nay tragedy if this court finds Bridget Bishop guilty of practicing witchcraft! She practices nothing of the sort. She bakes pies like an angel. Practice? Maybe darning! She darns socks. She darns sweaters. She may even darn an afghan or two! But she didn’t darn those kids! And it would be a pity for this town to lose a… a, uh… pie maker. And that’s all I have to say!”
That’s the way it went. It’s real. You can check the trial transcripts… word for word. I answered the call… did the best I could, given the hurried nature of the proceedings. Those people’s minds were made up. You could see that… anyone could see that! Bridget Bishop went to the hangman’s noose the next day on June 3, 1692. A bunch of kooks if you ask me. Almost as bad as those arrogant French Officers who accused Alfred Dreyfus of treason. They should have known better; but their minds were made up, too. I wasn’t particularly successful then either. But… a different time, a different trial… and a different story for another day.